a matter of perspective
by GirlMood
Summary: In which the author shamelessly employs the literary device 'no plot' and magically conjures a Calill capable of lighting Geoffrey's hair on fire. Seriously. /Crack.


**TITLE:** a matter of perspective

**FANDOM: **fire emblem

**NOTES:** DANGER DANGER - The author is utilizing atrociously cracky plotlessness and nonexistent grammar loopholes. She does not apologize. (RE-EDIT at 2:33PM, August 3)

**ALT. SUMMARY: **_In which Largo is an excellent husband, and Calill puts her foot down and terrorizes her friends over furniture. /Crack_

* * *

><p>1.<p>

One day, Calill buys a couch.

But the word is not _couch_, Calill insists when Largo makes the mistake of calling it such. The word is _divan_ and anyone who so much as insinuates that her handcrafted, taffeta brocaded, _gold gilded gold __**divan**_ is anything less than that has something terrifying coming at them. Like Calill's foot. Pointy heel attached.

Largo nods. Very quickly.

"Yes, dear and what a beautiful divan it is! Let's set it up in the corner here - yes, right here!"

Largo, needless to say, is a very successful husband.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

Ike is the first to blunder.

It isn't entirely his fault, though. He's just had a horrible workday after paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, insert no less than five nobles who are exceedingly eager to introduce him to their daughters, one of whom propositions him to a game of polo which Ike is not inclined to take at face value (especially when considered how the girl _waggled_ her eyebrows at him - her _eyebrows_) before he makes his escape into the streets of Melior and dunks into the (oh the irony, they'll never find him _here_) General Ike's Inn where he plunks himself down at a table and orders something to drink. Anything at all. _Please_.

Largo hands him a mug of Gallian whiskey, Ike spots the divan in the corner, and things degenerate from there.

Later, when Elincia inquires as to why Ike smells like burnt toast and is strung out across her balcony at the ungodly hour of 3AM, he doesn't have much of an answer. To make up for his transgression, he provides her a very informative description on the subtle refinery of Begnion upholstery.

* * *

><p>3.<p>

Some time later, Lethe moseying on into the inn for a drink. Like Ike, she's had a terrible day and if someone so much as mentions another word about liaisons and 'for the good of our countries' (with or without the condescending undertones), Lethe thinks that she just might bite their head off. Which wouldn't taste pleasant at all - nasty, oily beorc skin.

In the midst of her monologue, she spots a new addition to the inn nestled in an unobtrusive corner and, like the good soldier she is, investigates.

Calill discovers Lethe in the midst of that investigation, leaning back, eager and purring, sprawling across the fine cushions with the finesse of a cat setting herself out to sun. The pleased, self-satisfied upturn of her mouth sets Calill's blood and mouth on fire.

"Are you _shedding_ on my divan?" she snaps, heels clicking angrily as she advances on the laguz lounging on her upholstery.

Lethe spares her a critical sideways glances before turning her head away in a huff. "I do not _shed_," she sniffs regally, unsheathing and idly drawing blunt claws along one embroidered edge (Calill's heart makes an undignified break for her throat.) "I _exfoliate_."

There's a minute of excessive gaping and gesturing on Calill's part at the absurdity of the statement while Lethe solely peruses her surroundings, kneading her paws experimentally in the cushions and nodding to herself in a satisfied manner.

"And this is a couch," she declares a moment later, solemnly and thoroughly unaware of the dangers of beorc shoes.

Calill is all too eager to demonstrate.

* * *

><p>4.<p>

Geoffrey is the last of the slip-ups, and it's in the midst of watching their beloved general and king get his hair lit up by a well aimed fireball that someone in the Royal Guard makes the connection between a monarch-in-distress and attempted regicide. A knight flying tackles his king to the ground while the regiment wrestles Calill to the ground, seizing her tome; but that doesn't stop her - she rears up like a bear, staggers as soldiers cling vainly to her arms and legs, and with all the raging, flailing, clawing _fury_ of an animal, she dives for Geoffrey.

In that moment, as he stares down Death's snarling avatar, outstretched hands grasping with the intent to maul and make pasta out of his eyeballs, Geoffrey can't help but marvel at her perfectly manicured nails.

They're orange. And shiny.

Oh, the wonders of topcoat.

* * *

><p>5.<p>

Good husband that he is, Largo realizes that everything is now at The End.


End file.
